The Roaches at Trafalgar and Treachery
The Roaches at Trafalgar
The wave breaks into a stinging salt spray, which lashes over the bow of HMS Triumphant, as she boldly dances with the elements. First Lord of the Admiralty Sir Horatio Nelson gazes at the French Man-O-War through his spyglass, sure-footed and steady, even while the crew struggle to maintain their balance in the heavy seas. His mandibles twitch when the Lafayette turns to deliver a powerful broadside. Through the lens, cannons flash, belch smoke, and recoil. There is a muted clap of thunder, followed seconds later by ghastly whines and an unearthly ripping, as the salvo passes harmlessly overhead. A rising swell has spoiled the French gunners in their aim. "Full Sail!" Admiral Nelson bellows, his voice deep and robust, while briskly snapping the spyglass shut with several hooks and hairy legs. "You mean to ram her, Sir?" questions First Officer Peter Kensington, his cultured Yorkshire accent trembling with fear. The Admiral does not reply. Triumphant crashes through another foaming whitecap, as the crew begins to twitch their wings nervously, producing a low hissing sound.
***
Treachery
Afternoon slouches into evening, cable television has lost all entertainment value. I grow weary with the day, as polychromatic sunlight filters through my living room windows. Desperately bored, desperately tired, I close my eyes to escape this stupefying doldrum which constitutes reality.
Chittering laughter interrupts peaceful repose. With disregard to disturbance for the present moment, a jangling sense of disquiet forms within the pit of my belly. High tinkles, delirious cacophony causes relaxed eyelids to snap open.
The damned silverware! Enjoying some unknowable joke, at my expense no doubt. Outraged, I leap upon my feet, striding for the kitchen to chastise irritating utensils.
A lucky glance saves me. Where the handwoven rug once lay, now spans a yawning abyss. With sharp intake of breath, I turn away. Overcome, spasms of nausea wrack my body, such was the horror of gazing into shuddering depths for mere moments. A hideous fate must surely await one unlucky enough to tumble from the rim.
"The rocking chair did this," I tell myself, with an absolute certainty born of instinct.
A vile conspiracy, masterminded by inanimate beasts of burden. Crawling to the couch, I hoist myself upon soft cushions. Adrift toward unconsciousness, cruel gossip from dining room furniture joins the fray. Building in a belligerent roar.
Hours later I awaken. My house is dark and quiet. Electric lights restore sanity to a troubled mind. The rocking chair sits where it always has, still and innocent, the very picture of domestic comfort.
I know better.
Author Bio
In addition to his story "Gun Dogs," published in February in Down in the Dirt, and "Chow," which is forthcoming in The Main Street Rag, Jackson Herring has recently had his piece "Shipped" accepted in The Massachusetts Review for their next issue. Jackson is 32 years old and currently serving time in the Montana State Prison system at a private prison in Shelby, Montana. He sees the parole board in a month and is hopeful that he might be given a chance to reunite with his family and have an opportunity to live life in a positive and productive manner.